D-HEX-23675: Tales of Quintessa: Sons of Cybertron
by Aerisnoir
Summary: [G1] Five Cybertronians from differing heritages and factions awaken to find themselves locked in a murky room with no explanation as to how they got there. They weren't aware that this was Quintessa, but they are about to find out. Some more up close than others.
1. Chapter 1 - The Sinking Room

Title: D-HEX-23675: Tales of Quintessa: Sons of Cybertron.  
Journal #3 in the D-HEX-23675 Journals series.  
Author: Aerisnoir

Chapter: The Sinking Room  
[location: Somewhere in the Khalanxis facility.]  
There was a dull pain clinging around his processors. A static cloud hovering between delicate circuitry, fuzzing up his senses. A slight groan escaped him, but his lead brick recharge stupor was still too strong to wake up from. Voices reach him, words and sentences drifting slowly into perception and clearing up as his audio receivers reboot:

"No, my good mech, I only[…]few minutes ago [….]." A calm voice spoke, slightly slurred through audio receivers still recalibrating  
"Hmm, well [….], and it[..] just this room?" A deep baritone voice answered, "[…] else?"  
"It appears as such, lad."

He stirred, his systems slowly starting up one by one. The talking stopped, and he could sense that whoever were conversing out there looked in his direction. There was a pause before; "Ah SLAG, the 'Con is waking up!"  
Combat drives jumped into action at the sentence and ruby optics flashed to life. Maelstrom planted his palms on the ground (barely noticing the thin layer of water that was covering the uneven floor) and pushed himself upwards in a battle-ready crouch. He roared intimidatingly in the direction of the voice, years of operating amidst other Decepticons having earned him prime reflexes.

His challenging roar was answered by a mech leaping in front of the other, shielding one body with its own. Maelstrom identified the action as submissive; if he was dealing with another aggressor it would be at his throat already. He fluidly rose from his crouch into a standing position, identifying the two other mechs: The one up front was bulky and heavily armored, clearly a melee brawler. Maelstrom's optics narrowed dangerously as he noticed the red sigil on the mech's chest. An Autobot.  
The mech that was being held back was clearly not a fighter; the polished metal was not designed for battle and it regarded him with a curious yet unrecognizing gaze. There was no sign of a sigil anywhere.  
Maelstrom rotated a shoulder, noticing how this little movement was enough to put the Autobot on edge. He looked around; they were in a single room with no apparent exits. There was one other mech, still slumped against a wall but also stirring. Maelstrom looked back to the 'Bot and Unknown, "Who are you, and what the slag is going on here?"  
"You first, 'Con!" The Autobot bit back instantly, optics roaming over his form looking for weaponry.  
"Really? You want a go, slagsucker?" Maelstrom growled, returning a dangerous, toothy grin.  
"Gentlemen, gentlemen! This is unnecessary!" The other mech stepped from behind the Autobot, both hands raised in a placating gesture, "This is no time for pointless squabbles. Ahem, my designation is Branx Amolgoth the Third, I am a merchant mech from the Silix quadrant. This mech here, I understood, is Tesla, an Autobot. You are a Decepticon I see, also from Cybertron? What is your designation?"  
Maelstrom narrowed his optics, taking in the appearance of Branx. Still no sigil. "Maelstrom, soldier of the Decepticon Vanguard stationed on Cybertron. You are a…. neutral? Don't see those around often."  
Branx nodded, "Well, we no longer live around Cybertron anymore, the war-"  
"Don't talk to me about the war, non-affiliated coward. I don't give a frag about you nor what you have to say!" Maelstrom growled, effectively shutting the neutral up. When did he give the impression he was interested in what the neutral had to say?  
"Some choose not to fight, 'Con, leave him alone!" Tesla growled back, blue optics glaring. Maelstrom smirked, "Oh, don't worry; a weak neutral is hardly a challenge. Don't twist your gears in a knot, gunbait, if we are to have a fight then you are the first I kill."  
Branx huffed and approached the fourth prisoner in search of distraction. He crouched near the stirring form, shaking the shoulder, "Comrade, wake up." Systems spurred into action at the touch, and yellow optics lit up. Branx smiled "Very good, you must activate as well, my friend. I don't see a sigil on you either, are you a neutral?"  
"Neutral?" the fourth mech replied, "neutral in what?" It looked around the room, spotting Maelstrom and Tesla locked in a stare-down, and realization dawned, "Oh!" The fourth mech regarded Branx, "I see what you mean. Yes, I'm neutral. Like you then? You wear no faction signs. What are Autobots and Decepticons doing in the Selmax sector? This area is-" His voice trailed off as he looked around the room, "This is not the space station…"  
"Neither is this the Silixian auction house, my good man, or any of the places that our Autobot and Decepticon companions found themselves last. I fear we have all been spirited away; Does your processor unit feel heavy and clogged? It feels that way for all of us; whom or whatever is behind this used quite some potent form of cybervenom. What is your designation, comrade?"  
"I am called Mistwind, mate, good to meet you. Yes, my processor /does/ feel wracked. We were poisoned?" Rising to his feet, the other neutral regarded the rest, "Who are you?" He asked curiously.  
"My name is Branx Amolgoth the Third, comrade. I am a merchant."  
"Tesla, Shieldsman of Iacon." Tesla pronounced, straightening and tapping his chest lightly with a fist.  
"Maelstrom, soldier of the glorious Decepticon Army." Maelstrom repeated, making sure to straighten more and look prouder than Tesla. He shot a dirty look to the Autobot, audio receivers picking up the faintest of crude retorts sounding suspiciously like 'the losers of the galaxies'.  
"Nice to meet you" Mistwind nodded quickly, gaze already going around the room, "Place looks… cozy" He drawls sarcastically, trying to distract the two aligned mechs.  
The Decepticon nods in agreement, "They will bleed for this. A crime like this will not go unpunished. Capturing a Decepticon fighter, whoever had the nerve will be hanged from the highest tower! I'll do it myself when I get out, I can tell you that." Having said that, Maelstrom turns to the walls to investigate their surroundings. With a scowl, Tesla also turned himself to the wall furthest from the Decepticon, trailing his hands across the surface looking for ridges betraying doors and whatnot. Mistwind loosened up his fingers and shoulder joints before also heading over to one of the remaining two surfaces. Branx watched them, crossed his arms in front of his chest and observed the three at work.

The room was rectangle shaped, with circle-shaped indentations in three of the four walls. The thin layer of water on the floor had no place to go; the room lacked drains. This lead to a dreary splashing sound any time one of the mechs took a step. There was a chill on the air, and the thinnest veil of swamp fog lingered over the liquid surface. Any organic being would feel cold but that was not something that the mechs had any trouble with. There were particles in the air that tensed their systems, however, a distinct tang of something that would be familiar, but hardly encountered. "It smells like rust in here." Tesla suddenly noticed, placing the scent. "Like the rust sea on Cybertron." He knelt on one knee, running his fingers through the water. "This ain't rust sea water though, that's for sure. PH levels don't match up. But this /is/ water with rust in it. That is worrisome."  
Maelstrom scoffed and teased, "Afraid of a little rust, princess?"  
"Afraid, no. Worried, yes, you fraggin' bullet biter. This will cost us our hide if we're made to stand in it for long enough. Rust can spread through the systems; a friend of mine is a medic, and has seen plenty of cases of rust infections."  
"Well, I don't /intend/ on standing in it for long enough." The Decepticon retorted, "There's gotta be an exit here."  
As if on cue, one of the circles in the wall receded further and slid open, drawing the attention of the group. A loud clanging, screeching noise drew nearer, more water beginning to leak into the room. Not before long another mech was spit out into the chamber. Before anyone could really react in a way besides staring in dumb confusion the circle closed up again, leaving them all standing there to watch the newcomer spasm and scramble to stand…

[Location: Khalanxis Aphos Wing, lower chambers.]  
"My apologies." The Assistant whispered as it swathed the metal on which it was working with a cleansing agent. It wondered for a moment why it was apologizing in the first place, but the slight rumble that answered from above was an indication that the words were heard. It knew that the predator was following all of its movements.  
The protective mask that was bound before its face only revealed the Assistant's eyes, and it glanced up for just a moment. There was a palpable tension in the atmosphere; The Assistant knew it was safe, but still it felt like it was under ever-present danger of falling prey to the prisoner.

As the Assistant pulled the cart filled with all sorts of canisters holding test compounds closer, it mused that it wouldn't take the inhabitant of this cell a lot of effort to kill. Not a very reassuring thought, but then again, the holding pens were filled with all manners of dangerous specimens. And yet…. this one was different from the others.  
The Assistant took a small brush and dipped it into a compound, setting down a small stroke on the metal that it had cleansed. The sheet tensed ever so slightly, underlying systems pausing in anxiety at whatever chemical concoction that was being applied. The Assistant waited, observing the steel. There came no reaction.  
"Test compound S-R-009 applied to nanofoldic steel on live test subject. No reaction to be observed. Continuing to compound S-R-010." It announced to the air. There was a camera affixed at such an angle that it could record the procedure. A new brush from a different canister lathered a stroke of the mentioned S-R-010 compound on an area next to S-R-009. It held better to the steel, but otherwise did not give a result that the Assistant was apparently pleased with.  
"Test compound S-R-010 also seems to be ineffective. Proceeding to compound S-R011."  
"What are you trying out on me?" A weary, baritone voice suddenly spoke, startling the Assistant. It paused, not moving an inch. Then, it exhaled and forced itself to relax. The prisoner was bound; it was illogical to let its presence have such influence. "I am trying out compounds, prisoner."  
"Compounds that do what?"  
"That information is classified, prisoner."  
"Classified? You're smearing that stuff on my body, it itches like a scrapbug. Slag 'classified', tell me what it is!"  
"It itches?" The Assistant frowned, looking at the metal. With a small gasp, it quickly spoke towards the camera, "Compound S-R-010 seems to have retracted and thickened its molecules into a gel-like substance. It currently displays adhesive properties. Test subject indicates to experience an 'itching' sensory impulse. This might indicate a proper influence upon the nanofoldic metal. Proceeding with S-R-011 and keeping a watch on the developments of S-R-010."  
"You have yet to answer me, /squid/" Now the voice held the tension of a dangerous roar. But the Assistant knew that it would have no power to bring such an exertion to life, "I do not have to answer to you, prisoner." The answer was given sharply.  
"I demand you to answer me!" It was a feeble attempt to exert dominance. If the Assistant was one to permit itself to do so, it would laugh. Truth of the fact; laughing was an action it was incapable of doing. It merely looked up, its even gaze enough to let the test subject know that it was crossing a line it really should not cross.  
"… And I suggest you to be wiser, prisoner."

Their standoff did not last long: with an irritated growl the prisoner averted its gaze. With that, their exchange ended. The Assistant continued testing, and the prisoner spoke no words about it.

[Location: Khalanxis Research & Court facility, Aphos wing, lab G-20.17]  
"Well, they didn't really ever /ask/" Fernicius grinned as he spoke of an anecdote of his off-planet years, "but we gave them the weapons-grade cargo /anyway/. Veiled, of course. By the time they found out they were already surrounded with Senate agents, our Justicars were assigned to the scene and it was over in a matter of minutes. Economy went right on its face there and our friends from Gorbul-7 were free to buy gigantic plots of real estate. Just goes to show you don't really need a fighting war to win dominion over a planet."

"But of course you don't." Emphisa agreed absently as he reached out, fastening a component inside the chassis of the micromaster sized mech that was lying prone on the workbench. "Now stop reminiscing and hand me Hextaida's fuel capacitor. You are giving me the impression that you miss working on a trading ship. The way you have been talking…"  
"Oh, but I sometimes do, Revered colleague, I sometimes do." Fernicius admitted while handing over the requested item. He hovered closer to the body to assist with the installation of such a small component, "But I wouldn't trade this for returning to off-planet services to the Empire, do not misunderstand me, Chief. I value working alongside you on the D-HEX project more than anything else."  
"Good." Emphisa nodded, satisfied by the answer. He paused, "I am not sure if we could find another programmer to take over in the case of your absence, so rest assured; I would forbid you to leave this project."  
Fernicius smiled, "that is quite an honor, Sir, to be forbidden to leave one of your projects."  
"It is. On that note, are your project documentations in order?" Emphisa replied lightly, fastening fuel lines and activating the inner systems of the cargolifter. He made it sound like an innocent question but Emphisa glanced up to give Fernicius a meaningful look. The other Quintesson met his glance, holding it for a moment before lowering his sight and nodding, "Yes Sir; that they are. Any Quintesson programmer could fulfill my function using the documentation, Sir." There was no actual danger of Emphisa deciding to send Fernicius away, but confirming each other's rank and place and pushing and pulling at the existence of function was an inherently Quintessonian mannerism. It kept the mind sharp and the ambitions sane.

The door to the lab buzzed and slid open. Emphisa and Fernicius looked up to see one of the receptionists standing in the doorway, clutching a datapad to the chest. It gave them a polite nod, "Chief Creator Emphisa Sir? I just received word that our Beloved Overseer, may his wisdom guide us all, would like to speak to you as soon as you can visit him, Sir."  
"Ah yes, thank you, Siralya, for bringing me this message. I will finish this hardware upgrade and then I will be on my way to the Overseer's office. Please put my other appointments today on hold for the time being."  
"Affirmative Sir. As you command, Chief Creator Emphisa Sir." The receptionist smiled and bowed its head in a nod before leaving again.

Fernicius frowned, faces switching around, "The Overseer would like to speak to you personally, Esteemed Colleague? I heard nothing about an appointment?" His confusion was clear.  
"That is because there wasn't one, Fernicius. This is a spontaneous summoning. Also, I hereby remind you that your rank gives you no entitlement to knowing the details of my daily agenda."  
Fernicius startled, bowing his head quickly, "Of course not, Sir. I had no intention of making such an implication, Sir."  
The slight chuckle that was heard from Emphisa's direction as the Quintesson scientist continued working on the unconscious D-HEX unit showed that he did not mind that badly. Latches were closed up and locked before Emphisa retreated to observe his work from a distance. "Well, best not keep our Revered Overseer waiting. Fernicius, run an integrity check on the new sub-aqua routines that you programmed and benchmark that new fuel capacitor. I would like a performance report upon my return."  
"Of course, Chief Creator Emphisa Sir."

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[End of Chapter: The Sinking Room]

Author note:  
This journal will aim to give all of the characters some more scenetime besides pursuing the main storyline.

If you like the series (or find these stories interesting to read), feel free to leave suggestions or reviews. These are of course always welcome.


	2. Chapter 2 - Cultures of another kind

This chapter is very late because my laptop's DC power jack broke one night after faithful service. It was a while later that I discovered that the old desktop pc had space for two extra hard drives, so that worked as a short-term fix.  
I couldn't find a logical point to separate the story so I'm going to spoil you with this super long chapter containing more information about the homes of Branx, Mistwind, Maelstrom and Tesla. And don't forget the stranger who joined them at the end of the previous chapter.

Despite the custom environment design I did for the Quintesson culture, I suddenly found myself introducing these characters who live in areas that the cartoon does not describe so well either (not at all!). So I tried my best to put a little focus on the characters telling each other (and us) about their homes. I like the IDW style of universe design more than that of the original G1, along with a bit of that backdrop. So I intermixed just a little here for flavor; don't worry, the timeline is fine and in order. All hail the timeline.

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Chapter : Cultures of another kind]  
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Emphisa halted in front of the large semi-circle desk that belonged to the Quintesson in charge of running the Khalanxis facility; the Overseer. Their leader was enigmatic, but just in his actions. Quintessons who acted in the greater interest of the empire could be counted on receiving more freedom to pursue such benefits. In a place like Quintessa, scraps of freedom were worth more than currency. A Quintesson earned a base income according to their rank and function, with extra bonuses for ambitious acts of excellence. They could go and petition for a profession, and academic teaching was of high standard. Quintessons had everything at their disposal, except for one thing. Freedom, true and unwatched, was a possession that did not exist easily within the Empire.

"You wanted to see me, Revered Overseer?" Emphisa asked quietly.  
"I did, Emphisa."  
With a swipe of a tentacle, the Overseer summoned a holographic projection of D-HEX-23675 to life above his desk. Emphisa steeled himself to not react in any way other than expectation at what the Overseer had to say. It was /completely/ natural that the Overseer just conjured an image of his creation in front of him. Completely natural.  
"D-HEX-23675 is still the most recent version of this project, I take it?"  
"Yes, Overseer, it is."  
"How is its performance?"  
"Perceived stable, Overseer."  
"Perceived, so nothing conclusive yet? What about its intelligence?"  
"No conclusive mark yet, Sir, we are performing in depth testing. The subject is quite intelligent, Sir"  
"Learning capability?"  
"It learns fast. Its cognitive skill is… very adequate, Overseer. Of course, besides its cargo lifting abilities, we only designed it to excel in cognition and observation."  
"I see. Any penchant for violence? The ancient military hardware units had an ingrained thirst for battle, to motivate them. Is this inclination present within D-HEX-23675?"  
"Not that we have detected, Sir. The inclination was detectable in earlier versions, but we haven't been able to find it in the last couple of versions prior to number 23675. We are finding evidence that imply that we have bred thirst for dominance out of the units, and successfully introduced subservience."  
"Noted."  
"Sir?"

It was silent for a long while as the Overseer turned the hologram this way and that, zooming in onto details that caught the eye. He picked up a hand-written report that was part of the collection of documents in front of him. From his side, Emphisa could recognize the seal of the Master of Inquisition: Salaxorius. A tiny feeling of pure dread threatened to engulf him and for once Emphisa was glad that he had only one face to show. Eventually, the Overseer turned his gaze upon him. "You wonder why I am inquiring all of this." He stated. He didn't need to ask; of course Emphisa was curious to the reason for these questions.  
"Khalanxis is a big facility, Emphisa. Many rooms, many different functions. It requires a lot of maintenance behind the scenes to operate smoothly." The Overseer said, "I am /very/ invested in having Khalanxis run smoothly."  
He reached up and scaled the hologram to real life scale. "The D-HEX line is small; I noticed that Hextaida Mandar is unobtrusive, yet sufficiently capable of contributing to the facility if given orders. You even designed it with that purpose in mind. Currently, our maintenance is sourced between Sharkticon units and third party acquisitions; I want to achieve complete internalization of all maintenance procedures: No outsiders. But our Sharkticons lack the intelligence to fill all requirements, and are by far too clumsy to be reliable. The Allicons are not much better" The Overseer explained, "Can you create another prototype, one without the higher intelligence of Hextaida Mandar? Same size, same abilities, but with a permanent connection to our central mainframe to coordinate actions. Very cheap to manufacture, easily replaceable, lacking the ability to make decisions of its own?"  
Emphisa could not help but look a bit baffled, "Sir… are you proposing we manufacture some kind of drone?"  
"Similar. But smarter than Sharkticons. Such a mech would be able to ship cargo, but also help keep the facility clean. It could be assigned the task of receiving guests and guiding them to their destination around the building. But it would lack self-governance. This… is something that Hextaida Mandar is capable off, correct?"  
"Self-governance? Yes, Overseer, Hextaida Mandar can decide its own actions based on analysis of observations and intelligence. That is a crucial part of testing the loyalty codex." Emphisa nodded, coughing, "but you are talking about a unit to which D-HEX-23675 would serve as a template, and that we remove the processor components that form decisions within such a unit? Well, yes, that is certainly possible, Sir. It would be even easier than creating a proper D-HEX unit."

"Good, that settles it then. I expect the first unit to be ready for a test in four weeks. Can Fernicius work with the mainframe programmers to create a central command system?"  
"I will start him on that task, Revered Overseer Sir."  
"Good. I expect you to send me appropriate updates during this. My assistant will schedule an appointment where you will demonstrate the first prototype. You are dismissed, Emphisa."  
"As you command, Revered Overseer Sir. May your wisdom continue to guide us to greatness."

And with that, Emphisa left the office of the Overseer, mind already racing to figure out how to meet this new challenge.

[Location: Somewhere in the Khalanxis facility.]  
"My name is Branx Amolgoth the Third. I am a merchant of the Amolgoth Mercantile Emporium based in the Silix Quadrant. We are a first line distributor of fine textile wares, haute couture straight from the marvelous style planet Mirainne-lianth, impeccable bone china and Myrrinthian forged tableware and hundred percent organic-grown moonberries. We are a thriving business; we even deliver to the Silixian court! Yes, I admit, it is /quite/ an honor to deliver to a /royal/ house, but the Amolgoth Mercantile Emporium places professionalism and confidentiality in high regard: a fact that the Silixian Emperor and Empress acknowledges. This of course also ensures that other customers seek our wares and services. All upper class, mind you. The best quality in the universe has its price, of course. And of course, we also trade with non-upper class customers who can meet our prices. The Folmoxians for instance; a truly bastardous species. One of the most corrupt civilizations out there, if you must know my opinion about them. They lack the cunning of Quintessons or else they would probably be just as powerful. Of course, you can take it from me that negotiating with the Folmoxians is an incredible precarious affair with no room for error. The slightest miswording, a wrong turn of phrase can have serious long-lasting effects on trade agreements. It is my responsibility to keep the Amolgoth trade resolutions in good standing, and I have successfully maintained relationships with numerous trading partners. Truly, it is a matter of sheer fortune and a righteous calling that I found my way to Silix and in employment with the Amolgoth Mercantile Emporium. I started out as a mere door-to-door salesman before conquering a position as aide to a merchant in the Silix Merchants District. At first I had to make due running deliveries for Lox, the merchant who hired me, but it was not before long that I was rewarded for my efforts and qualities with the higher rank of sales administrator. Because of that I gained access to the Silix Auction houses and met Kalrax, a seller of fine Vol'uvian silk. Kalrax eventually introduced me to Vanatax, the steward of the Amolgoth Mercantile Emporium. After a strict but professional evaluation period where my entrance exam consisted of selling up a Myrrinthian forged set of cutlery with a 13% profit rating to a Lyrron -and we all know that Lyrrons don't have hands or any such similar appendages- I was embraced as a member to the corporation. I will readily admit that it was a righteously challenging exam, but that is of course understandable since the Amolgoth Mercantile Emporium is only interested in employing the best. They are almost like a family to those who pass the exam. A family where you are loved for solidifying sharp and profitable deals and work hard to expand the family's market position. It is perfect.

In my first few years I was of course an acolyte merchant, but as is to be expected of the higher quality specimens of our kind, I astonished everyone with my ability to learn skills and sales tactics and my proficiency at keeping track of the names, ranks and history of every business partner and their secretary and staff. This naturally meant a quick rise in the hierarchy of the Amolgoth corporate structure, a rise that isn't so much apparent through function but the manner of respect with which one is treated. You can trust me when I say that I enjoy a lot of respect. Of course, it isn't very much a surprise in and off itself that there has been rumors coming down from the upper circle that I might be among the chosen candidates for the new higher management positions in charge of setting up a new trading route to Solux-19. That is a very exciting prospect, you know. I understand it must be difficult to imagine for outsiders but the from-scratch creation of a new trading route, the diplomacy and envoy treatises that are involved with such an endeavor... it is a golden opportunity, a responsibility given only to the most worthy. And I am positive that we can all agree on the fact that-"

"Ah come on, you crank for brains! You're as interesting as a bag of rustcovered wingnuts. Seriously, how can anyone live like that?"  
Branx stammered, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "I, er... I'll have you /know/... that er, my life is very interesting!" He frowned at the Decepticon who was leaning against the wall giving him a fangy, mocking grin. "But fine, I can attest to having been through one encounter with space pirates. Too much excitement if you ask me, but I'm sure a brute like you sees sport in it. Perhaps that is something that interests you more than the success of my daily work?"  
"Ah, /space pirates/. Now that is something /I/ can relate to. It's never a dull day with pirates." Another neutral mech perked up and nodded fervently. Branx glanced at him, frowning in dismay at the realization that such a boorish topic was more appreciated that discussing high class trading. It was the mech that had slid down into their rectangle room, half-online and struggling and trashing to get its bearings. They learned that its name was Tarix. It was a medium-sized mech with plenty of scars on its metal and with a burly posture to which only Tesla was a contestant. The barrels they sported revealed that both were tanklike. Neither Branx, Maelstrom, nor Mistwind were tanks, thus not particular burly in their build.  
"As I said before after sliding into this dump with the rest of you, I am a peacekeeper on the Renbuke-6 space station. It is my job to enforce the station laws and to throw any criminals in a deserving cell. Or any one below their deserving; whichever is free and looks appealing to me." Tarix spoke in a gruff voice. "The majority of these cells are occupied with, heh, 'less-than-honest' merchants who make it their hobby to 'interpret' the laws in and around the Renbuke-6 in 'creative' ways. Pirates, in the common tongue. Gave me these little souvenirs..." He shifts a shoulder pauldron to let the light play over a particular large gash in the metal.  
"That looks painful, dude. Shouldn't you... you know, get that fixed or something?" asked Mistwind, concern shining in his optics. Tarix barked out something that sounded like a laugh, "Hah! /Fix/ it? Nah, I'd just get new ones from the next son-of-a-glitch I grab in the neckjoint. And besides, they serve a good enough warning for mechs and xeno's that wish to try their luck resisting arrest."  
"Oh yes... as in... stab /other/ places." was Maelstrom's apt retort, "shows them right where the stabbing and shooting was unsuccessful on you. Amateur."  
"Excuse me?"  
"You heard me, Neutral. Leaving scars is like having neon-sign arrows on your chassis. Stab [here] please."

"Hrmph, you better tame that vocalizer of yours, son... Anyway, as I was saying the space station is massive, a central hub for the outer regions, even Branx's Silix quadrant. So yes, it's a constant optic on the sky situation because-"  
"There is no sky in space..."  
"What? Ah! Hah I get it, you're one of those 'pun' guys, Mistwind? Pointing out the obvious? Well, optics on space situation then. Because, as I was saying, we have a lot of piracy to deal with. But the numbers are lower than they could be, due to the dedication of me and the rest of the peacekeepers. We make sure to keep vigilant and take action with a strict hand. Renbuke-6 sees a lot of visitors of any kind of space-faring species. And that, in my opinion, is one of the best things about it; biodiversity. Sure makes me glad to not live on Cybertron; wouldn't want to miss the daily hustle and bustle of dockworkers loading and unloading cargo from the spaceships, the short-stay visitors rubbing noses with the locals, and of course said locals and their lives unfolding before your optics. We Cybertronians live a whole lot longer than some of them aliens, so it's practically like watching a movie."  
"A movie... you compare the lives of beings with a /movie/?" Tesla, the other burly mech who belonged to the Autobot faction wrinkled his nose, "They are living beings..."  
"Relax, I don't mean it in a wrong way. But we simply do live for countless of years after they turned to dust and ashes, slag, I've seen hundreds of squad members come and go. Some die in service, others grow old and wither away. I'm a regular at Macie's flower and sunstone shop, do you believe that? Because most of these sentients have some sort of vague emotional notion linked with dying. When you work with them for long enough, you're kinda compelled to participate in their rituals and customs."  
"Compelled? Sounds like proper polite behavior to me." Branx admonished, raising his face just slightly upwards which gave his look a bit of a haughty appearance.  
"'Twould be nice if people brought you flowers when you died." Mistwind nodded in agreement, "I would like that."  
"It shows decency and care." Was the addendum that came from Tesla's vocalizer.  
"Like a proper bunch of spineless, puddlemolten bunch of bumblepuppies." Maelstrom tacked on smoothly.  
For a moment it was silent. Then four pairs of optics simultaneously glared at Maelstrom. The Decepticon regarded his roommates for a second before his face faltered and he burst out laughing. "Oh, you mechs are priceless! Get some proper ball bearings, or shorten the length of those non-existent toe modules."

For a moment, Tarix looked ready to swing a punch toward the Decepticon fighter, but he restrained himself, cycled a burst of air through his systems and continued, "Right. Well, if any of you mechs are ever on Renbuke-6, go to 'Oil Slick's keg'; Best mechanoid-friendly bar you'll find in the station. They serve special high-grade with iron-chip toppings, and their daily four o'clock special is something you must have consumed at least once in your life. It is a treat." "Oil Slick?" Tesla quirked an eyebrow, "That name sounds... familiar..."  
"And rightly so, he's one of the best bounty hunters in the galaxy, Autobot. The proprietor named the bar after him; He can tell you all day long about how he met the famous hunter and shared a cup of energon with him. So don't ask him; he'll never shut up. Fair warning. Also, I'd appreciate it if you don't tell him I told you that, get what I mean?"  
"Hmm, I get what you mean." Tesla nodded, a soft smile playing around his lips, "I'll keep the bar in mind, but I don't expect to be able to cruise around the galaxies for a while to come." He sends a quick evil eye glance towards Maelstrom, rubbing his own Autobot insignia.  
"You'd just be delaying the inevitable, Autobot." Was the reply that Maelstrom send back for his glance.  
"Gentlemen..." Branx pressured, firming himself, "Let's not be unpleasant to one another... we are all in this together."  
Mistwind wrinkled his nose, "Not in what they are in we're not."  
Tarix laughed, clapping the other neutral on the back in appreciation, "Oh, sharp. That's a good one."  
"Oh, you think that's /funny/?" Red optics focused on the peacekeeper as Maelstrom took a space-claiming step forwards towards the neutrals, "are you laughing? You whose biggest challenge is the weakest flip-flopping scum of a port station? A few gnats you lock up, instead of squashing like the bugs they are; No wonder all of you are nothing more than sissy little crybaby neutrals. You laugh at me, a Decepticon warrior worthy to be in service to Lord Megatron, The rightful ruler of Cybertron? Cybertron is much better off /without/ you, talking about your silks and your four o'clock cup of fuel. It's /easier/ to let /others/ fight for the sake of our home planet, isn't it? Not muddling your paws, no blood on your hands. And of course when we have restored order and put Cybertron in its rightful place as the most powerful dominion in the galaxy, you'll just waltz right back in and claim the bed we've kept warm for you. That's what you think, huh? Well, let me set you straight: That's not gonna happen, neutral bunch of cowards! Cybertron will be home to /Decepticons/."

"Maelstrom, please calm yourself. That is not what we think at all..." Branx replied, straight but cautiously.  
"You say you don't, but I know better. We Decepticons are fighting for our home, to bring it back into its glory days. We make sacrifices to restore our culture to its original power and to push it onwards into supremacy! We'll have no place for cowards in a new world order, and your preference to live anywhere but Cybertron tells me you are nothing but weak and afraid and spineless. The way you talk about your lives, I should kill you for treason to the mother planet!"  
For the first time everyone held their breath, staring at the enraged Decepticon as his optics glowered and shone like bright and bloodied rubies.  
"But, I will not." Maelstrom turned away with great ease, like a predator whose only intention was to intimidate the non-interesting prey at his feet, "Because the situation dictates that we might have use for each other in order to escape this prison. As unlikely as I deem that necessity."  
"Look, Maelstrom, we don't mean to offend you. The war-"  
"Like I said before, don't you talk to me about the war." With a growl and a quick burst of his ventilation systems, Maelstrom spat at Tarix as the peacekeeper indeed tried to placate the tension.  
"Then tell us about the war." Everyone turned silent again, now turning to stare at Mistwind, who shrugged, "We can't talk to you about the Autobot-Decepticon war, fine. Talk to us about it. Because clearly we don't understand it."  
"Hrmph." Maelstrom stared coldly. The tension was almost palpable, a pressing mood that put everyone on edge. With an elaborous sigh, as if the other mech had asked him for the meaning of life which really wasn't that hard to figure out, Maelstrom relaxed.  
"Long ago, as in, incredibly long ago, we had the Cybertronian Golden Age. An age that some of you cowardly neutrals might remember as the time where you still lived on the planet. I don't know, and I don't care. At that time, live was /good/, we had enough energon to consume, no conflict, no war. You could get your four o'clock cup of fuel on every corner, watch sports and racing events in one of multiple stadiums and hang out at the bar till the 2nd moon's rise. You could follow a study in the direction of your function, go in training with a master artisan, and make a career! And if you're really lucky you make a discovery that will be a boon to society and get your name in the hall of heroes. At any rate, you'd get yourself a modest income, a nice apartment in Upper Iacon or on the slopes of Tyrest's Crescent overlooking the Manganese Mountains.

The Cybertronian Golden Age, a time of plenty and bliss.

Or, at least that's what the council would have you belief. In truth, a lot of us were starving in the slums, or with no hope of climbing up in society, forced to earn our keep in the gladiator pits and streets of Kaon. That is a truth they withheld from the masses, telling you only of how bad and criminal us 'kind' of mechs were. How we should be shunned for excelling only at combat, at having a useless purpose in a so-called 'perfect' society where everyone had their purpose. But then reserves were dwindling, and scandals arose, and we, the shunned, became sick and tired of the evil eyes we got, the inequality with which we were treated by the upper class mechs, the aristocrats and scientists and those bathing in luxury while we had /nothing/.

They never told you that, huh? You never heard about it.

But then Megatron rallied us, the tired and poor and outcast. He brought us together in a campaign to bring equality, to rekindle the Golden Age that a bumbling and corrupt senate had bereft us from. And Megatron, I can tell you that, Megatron knows that the only way to keep us all great and equal is to create a society as one, and to rule it with an iron fist. No council to lie on their backs overlooking the upper crust of society nearest to them, to feed fat the aristocrats and to starve the soldiers and the workers. The great and glorious Megatron aims to rectify the greatest crime any Cybertronian could ever commit: The forsaking of its own kind and planet by a ruling body. He is-"  
"You miserable bastard liar! Decepticons are the cause of all the trouble!" Tesla fumed, cutting off Maelstrom midtalk. He turns to the neutrals in a seething rage,"You remember it was Megatron, Decepticon leader, who started the war, right?! Megatron /started/ this millions of years old war that drove you from our home, the same war that cost the lives of billions of Cybertronians, and forced thousands of innocents into a live of killing or being killed. You /know/ that."

It remained quite silent on the other side before Tarix coughed, Branx averted his gaze and Mistwind merely blinked in confusion.  
"Uh, it's been quite a long while since the start of the war..." Mistwind admitted.  
Tarix nodded, "Things get muddled up...we haven't heard from Cybertron for so long, with all the communication cutoffs. We know that Megatron started the war... but come to think of it, I am not quite sure anymore why the war started in the first place."  
"It's not really pleasant to think about..." Was Branx's slightly embarrassed admittance.  
"By Primus, you three know nothing! Cluster bombs, raids on public ground, the tearing down of the central government buildings, the merciless slaughtering of innocents and robbing their tanks for energon; does that sound like something a great people's hero would do?!"  
Maelstrom shrugged, "They were probably either senate or senate sympathizers."  
"And he, this Decepticon, thinks it's alright to do so! What does that tell you about him, huh?"  
"Now Tesla, he didn't tell us his /opinion/ about those things, as grisly as they are..."  
"Oh, I don't really care, it's hard to stop a mob that's been backhanded and slagged over for years. Some mechs simply lust for revenge after all. Wouldn't you?"  
"That's what I mean! They are nothing more but wild savages!"  
"Ah, Autobot, I wouldn't let Soundwave hear that, nor Ratbat, and definitely not Shockwave. Only the most genius mech ever to function. Save for Megatron of course. Certainly not let him hear that."

"Listen to me, I'll tell you! I've seen it with my own optics. I fought against Decepticons, defending the Capital, Iacon, against their attempts to conquer and destroy it. It is nothing glorious nor noble: war is bloody and messy and it hurts everyone! As a Shieldsman I am a melee fighter and stationed at important structures to guard. But I have seen plenty of allies and friends head to the frontlines of battle, the artillery fire and missile strikes lighting up the skies of Cybertron like a macabre fireworks show. And I haven't seen even one of my friends who went out there return. But you hear the news reports, the status updates, the broadcasts. You hear those. They are meant to boost morale, but sometimes, morale is pretty darn hard to find. I fought around a total of two hundred and forty Decepticons during my stationing. That is two hundred and forty Cybertronians too much. They don't just fight... they rip into you, verbally. They taunt and mock and boast to you about how many of your allies, their fellow Cybertronians, they have killed, and what they are going to do to you when they defeat you. Your relatively peaceful lives on other planets and space stations can't prepare you for that, Neutrals. This war has been going on for ages, and the duration of a war across millennia can bring some pretty depraved minds into existence. The things I've mentioned before, all true, I've seen it. You should not consort with Decepticons. They caused this war that drove you from Cybertron, and you heard Maelstrom say it: they won't accept non-Decepticons should they win this war. They will hunt you down and murder you."  
Branx looked doubtful, shocked at hearing Tesla's words, "Surely they wouldn't when the war is over..."  
"They /will/. You can count on it."  
"Maelstrom!" The neutral merchant mech turned towards the Decepticon, gaze questioning and worried. Maelstrom looked back, face void of emotion. Or perhaps void of care. "Might makes right, Branx. That is the primary guideline of the Decepticon manifest. Survival of the fittest, led to victory by the strongest. It is beautiful if you were to take a moment to try and understand it."  
"Sounds more like Decepticons are pretty awful and evil bastards." Mistwind reflected out loud. This earned him the attention of Maelstrom, who answered with a metallic screeching snarl, "You said what now?! You ignorant whelp, make your apologies right now before I take it in your blood!"  
Mistwind's optics narrowed into a glare, "You're not the boss of me, Decepticon! I don't have to do anything!"  
"What did you say? I can't believe my audio receivers... are you talking back at /me/?" The fighter took a step towards Mistwind. This made the neutral inch back a bit despite his earlier confidence. Optics shifted, processor worked rapidly.  
"I said; are you talking back. at. /me/?"  
"Er, n-no sir... I am not."  
"It /sounded/ like you were. Do I need to tell you what I'd do to mechs who dare talk back at me?"  
"Maelstrom, I'm warning you..." Tesla warned, but Mistwind already shook his head.  
"N-no sir." the neutral mech whispered.  
"Then I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you, understand? Neutral?"  
"Y-yes sir." Mistwind nodded cautiously.  
"Good. Keep it that way, you worthless bucket of bolts."  
"Please! Keep it peaceful, we have enough trouble as it is!" Branx pleaded, "This savagery is completely uncalled for..."  
"I just realized, /you/ haven't told us anything about yourself yet, 'Rust'wind" Maelstrom observed, ruby optics narrowing dangerously. Mistwind shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, that is... true..." he startled and admitted warily.  
Suddenly, Tesla, Tarix and Branx all quieted down a bit, realizing that the Decepticon was actually right.  
"Well, spit it out then, what's your story?"  
"It's nothing, really." The neutral mech shook his head,  
"Slag it is, you're mighty suspicious, you know that? You only told us your designation... what's your function?" Maelstrom pressed, the rough edges of a growl seeping into his voice.  
"It's nothing, I said!" Was the agitated reply that the Decepticon got back, "Why can't you just take that and leave me alone?"  
"Because I'm sitting in this room with a mech who doesn't want to /talk/, that's why! For all I know you are the reason I'm here!"  
"But... but I'm not!" Is the only thing that Mistwind can croak out underneath the glaring eyes of Maelstrom, "Leave me be!"  
With the lightning reflexes befitting a warrior, Maelstrom lunged at the mech, pinning him against the wall, "You tell me, slagger!" to emphasize his demand, the Decepticon soldier delivered a crippling punch to the vulnerable side section just underneath Mistwind's arm. The other mech was clearly not combat oriented as the blow was enough to warrant a cry of pain and weakness of the legs. It was only because Maelstrom held him up that Mistwind did not sink to the ground.  
"Oh my..." Branx and Tarix both startled at this. "Maelstrom, stop that! That's assault and battering!" Tarix commanded.  
"This slagger is gonna tell us his function, if I have to rip it out of him I will!"  
"No you will not!" It was Tesla who grabbed Maelstrom by the elbow, expertly twisting it to force the Decepticon to relinquish his hold on the Neutral. "Aargh! You Autobot smelt-stain, get your hands off me!" Within moments, both Tesla and Maelstrom were a fuzzy blurr, exchanging blows and grabbing at pauldrons and plating. There was little they could do to each other in this situation; Maelstrom was more adept at deflecting blows while Tesla's armor was thick enough to absorb those coming from the Decepticon with no damage sustained. But both found an outlet for their frustrations in their hate for each other, growling and cursing as they rolled across the wet floor. Eventually, Tesla pinned Maelstrom down, and held him there.

"I'm a busker."  
The words were soft, croaked out amidst pained outcries. They came from Mistwind, who had sunken to the ground, sitting against the wall and clutching the spot where Maelstrom had punched him. "You've been talking about the glorious Decepticon army, and been telling details about the Autobot Cause, and even Branx is a merchant of status somewhere-"  
"The Silix Quadrant..." Branx could not help correct, earning a scoff from Mistwind. "See! You all /mean/ something. Who am I to tell you I'm a street musician in some lousy space station up who knows where. I'm a nobody... I'm not a merchant, and I'm not even a fighter!"  
"Oh, er, quite right." Branx, who had first moved to help Mistwind, wrinkled his nose and froze to the spot. It was of course one's imagination that he covertly attempted to distance himself from the musician. "I, er.. I see."  
Tesla shook his head,, "It's not about being a fi-" but he quickly stopped his argument, realizing that such a discussion wouldn't do anyone any good right now. He stared at Mistwind but before he could say anything a pair of hands forcefully pushed him away. Maelstrom worked himself from under the rest of Tesla and rose, glaring at the mechs around the room, "Well, quite miserable then, the lot of you!" With that, the Decepticon retreated to the corner farthest from anyone.

Tarix had not spoken yet, but he halted in front of Mistwind, not looking down, "A busker on a space station? Be careful; If I find out you're a courier... a runner for the mob or something, I don't care about any jurisdiction: I'll arrest you."  
"The mob? What does the mob have to do with street musicians?" Tesla asked as he pushed himself up from the ground, glaring briefly in Maelstrom's direction.  
"Buskers are eyes and ears and feet of shady circles. They run packages. You haven't been off Cybertron? You'll find that a lot of space stations have criminal circuits, with the poor working for them. Beggars, buskers, small status maintenance workers. Singular units like Mistwind over there make perfect messenger drones. Of course..." Tarix now looks at Mistwind, who tilts his head down but glances at them from the corners of his optics, "I have been known to make exceptions for mechs, for the right price. But I'm sure that price is something he won't be coughing up."  
It takes a while, but then Tesla clues in to the meaning of what Tarix said. He blanches and stammers, "But... you're talking about bribes! That is wrong!"  
Tarix shrugs, "It's just a bonus income, Autobot; better that it goes to me than to a judge. Most small-case criminals will be reprimanded and set out free without punishment anyway. For a small price I speed up the process."  
Tesla blinked, gaze shifting between Tarix and Mistwind. Suddenly, their precarious relationship was clear to him.  
His concerned look felt justified. But no-one seemed to care a lot about the possible situation. No-one except for himself.

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[End of Chapter: Cultures of another kind]  
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People, and mechs, aren't perfect. Seems Tarix turns out to be a little bit of a corrupt cop there.  
It's a pleasure to take a little sidestep from my adored Quintessons and focus on some good old-fashioned mech-centric writing. I greatly enjoy detailing Quintessa and the culture of that planet, but this change in focus is pleasant. I hope the characters are diverse and fun to read, and yes I know; Maelstrom never did tell us about his background. He's a hypocrite, and a Decepticon. I hope you weren't expecting him to divulge anything, else he just sorely disappointed you. (Make it a lesson: Decepticons don't talk about themselves.)

Please review if you like the stories, do check out journal 1 and 2 as this is number 3 in the series (I prefer to split per 'moment in time' so lots of separate stories all telling a greater story because it's easier to search back to events that way) and if you wish to follow on updates, make sure to click that 'follow author' button. Or else keep an eye out for the Khalanxis cover image in the search list recognizable by its three energon pools.

Next chapter; the room opens...


	3. Chapter 3 - Disengage

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Chapter: Disengage]  
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Their situation had become even more precarious in the last few hours. Tesla and Maelstrom looked ready to start another round of fighting, while the Autobot simultaneously kept a close optic on Tarix. Tarix who had revealed himself to not be such an impeccable keeper of the law of whatever space station that he worked at.  
Tesla grimaced. Wherever he turned, it always seemed that corruption was just under the surface. It irritated him to no end. The Decepticons he had fought around Iacon were ugly, but every once in a while he had encountered one who was spurred on not by viciousness but by a thirst for survival; the hope for something better.  
But then they would unmistakably fall prey to corruption just by being part of the harsh Decepticon culture. And Tesla knew that even Autobots weren't immune to becoming bitter and scarred.  
Such was the toll of war.

Tesla had never been off Cybertron, and here he was in an unknown place, stuck with neutrals that taught him quite too quickly that the universe out there wasn't as rosy as they had pretended it to be. He shouldn't have expected it to, but given, it had been too early for him to rationally think about a place without war.  
Branx was rubbing the room's grime off his metal; A rather futile act.  
Mistwind had simply flopped down altogether and refused to look at anyone. Even when his body language betrayed that he felt Tesla's gaze on him which made him all sorts of uncomfortable, he kept his optics stoically downcast. Three mechs in the room did not like him. One of them regarded him as weak. The other one thought he was trash. And the last one thought himself of too high a status to mingle with a mech who lived on the streets. Tesla pitied him.  
Maelstrom was leaning against a wall, arms crossed and one foot placed against the back wall. His ruby optics gazed into the room at a spot where he could keep an eye on the movements of the rest. He did not move, but Tesla recognized the tension in the form; the Decepticon was ready for combat.

Decepticons were always ready for combat, which wasn't a bad thing in itself.  
No, Tesla drew air into his systems with as little sound as possible.  
The bad thing was when Decepticons… became bored.  
And Maelstrom… he looked very bored.  
And thus, he looked very ready for a fight.

With the fluidity of a predator, Maelstrom pushed himself from the wall and stalked into the room.  
'Well slag, here we have it.' Tesla inwardly groaned as he tried not to straighten up in alarm. Ruby optics met his blue ones with a teasing and mischievous sparkle. Tesla realized that Maelstrom knew that he knew what the Decepticon was thinking. And apparently, Maelstrom found this very funny.  
Tesla watched as the others were alerted by the splashing footsteps. They splashed more than they should. Branx and Tarix looked up from what they were doing. Mistwind did not bother.  
The Decepticon halted in front of the busker, making his approach deliberately slow. The Neutral kept sitting where he sat; there wasn't much choice considering that his back was against the wall and Maelstrom was up in his personal space. If Mistwind looked up, he would be nose to pelvic component. He chose not to look up.

Maelstrom did nothing but stand there. The silence was unbearable, uncomfortable. His ruby optics were locked on the mech sitting at his feet, watching for movement. Then, with a low growl at the back of his throat, Maelstrom stalked further.  
Branx gulped as the Decepticon approached him. He tried to stealthily dodge the approaching mech, but couldn't quite match the speed with which Maelstrom blocked his escape with a well-placed hand against the wall. Branx startled, froze, staringly at the Decepticon with a yelp.  
"Hey Silix merchant…." Maelstrom rumbled, words just barely forming in the growl.  
"Ah, ahem, er… yes, Maelstrom? Did, er, did you need, er, something?" Branx replied.  
The feral grin that appeared on the fighter's face betrayed that Branx had made it way too easy just now. The merchant squeaked in growing terror as those ruby optics stared at him from underneath the rim of an armored helmet.  
"Do I need something? I need a /lot/ of things, Branx. How kind of you to ask." With that, the Decepticon ghosted a taloned hand over the location of Branx's lasercore, optics locked to watch the panic increase in the merchant's yellow optics, "Ah, but alas, I'm afraid you couldn't deliver!" With that, Maelstrom all too quickly vacated Branx's proximity and turned around.  
The Decepticon froze. He hadn't heard Tarix approach, but he just bumped into the neutral.  
"Cut it out, Decepticon. We're not here for your entertainment."  
"Heh. And why would I? Seems to me that entertainment is all you're good for. Sorry to break the news to you…but you're not very impressive."  
With a subtle raise of his chin, Tarix stepped forward to deliberately bump into Maelstrom a second time. The other mech narrowed his optics just slightly, and the both of them stared at each other.  
"I would back off if I were you, Tarix!"  
"And I'm telling you-!"  
A clanging sound cut through the noise they made. It came from the wall without any circular indentations and was followed by a couple more clangs and the grating of pistons sliding behind the wall.  
The wall had a door. The mechs in the room should've noticed that, but they somehow hadn't. But there was now a door in the wall.  
The group startled and stopped their bickering as the door suddenly swung open. A machine, bipedal, stepped inside. Its yellow optics observed the group, but its metal beak did not open to make a sound. It held a three-pronged polearm, but did so loosely, like it had no intent of using it.

"W-who, /what/ are /you/?" Tarix cried out, nerves making his voice biting and coarse.  
"Ahem, my dear Tarix, let me do the talking, I ask of you." Branx deftly turned to face the new mechanism, "Good day, sir, my name is Branx Amolgoth the Third, and I would like to inquire to you the meaning of our presence in this place."  
The beaked robot stared at him, yellow optics burning brightly with confidence. It said nothing.  
"Er... perhaps you do not speak common Cybertronian... let me try this again" Branx placated to the rest of the group, straightening up. He repeated the message again in the universal language. And in a Silixian tongue. Followed by Westerior Antecullaba. No tongue earned a reaction. Tesla laid a firm hand on Maelstrom's shoulder, since the Decepticon began to impatiently cycle air through its systems.

Before Branx was done with his attempt at communication and Maelstrom was fed up enough to actually start doing something, Mistwind stepped forward without hesitation. He walked right up to the strange mech, sidestepped to the left, and took one last step forward. There, standing besides the stranger, he turned around to face the rest. The stranger never looked at him but now spoke for the first time, his language a strange accent of Cybertronian, "The exercise has concluded. What are your findings, unit D-HEX-23675?"  
It was Mistwind who answered this vague and non-addressed question, leaving the rest to stare in open-mouthed confusion, "This one has gotten a lot of information about the opinions and viewpoints of both the Autobot, the Decepticon and the Neutral units regarding each other's social status, Guardian Unit Cindermaw Sir. It has not been able to find any appropriate references to the history of factory planet Cybertron as the Creators teach us, Sir."  
"Acknowledged, Unit D-HEX-23675. Master Creator Emphisa has instructed me to supply it with a readied order."  
"Acknowledged, Guardian Unit Cindermaw Sir. Standing by for orders, Sir."  
"Order: Voice the conclusion of your findings and deactivate your personality core immediately after completion of the voicing. Unit D-HEX-23675 will leash to Guardian Unit Cindermaw until ordered otherwise."  
"Acknowledged, Guardian Unit Cindermaw Sir." Mistwind, or rather, D-HEX-23675 thought for a moment, the others now slowly beginning to understand what was going on. Maelstrom's face darkened into a furious scowl, Branx looked baffled and horribly offended, and Tesla looked incredibly hurt. Tarix stared, blinking.  
"Unit D-HEX-23675 has found no traces of memory of the origin of our product lines within any of these units. The Autobot regards itself as 'good', which is Untruth. The Decepticon threatens its brethren and does not stand in Unity. The merchant Neutral has allied itself with another mercantile group and adopted their name into its monniker set; completely forsaking its origins. The other Neutral is designated to enforce the law but allows lawbreakers to go untried in exchange for credits; This is mockery in the face of justice. All of these units are defying the teachings of our Creators in some way, and are standing on the ground of our Creators. This unit declares them unfit and unreliable. They are defectives and such is the observation of unit D-HEX-23675. Personality Core deactivating."  
Cindermaw nodded, eyeing the group of the Autobot, the Decepticon and the Neutrals for one last time. "We are done here; we will now move to the observatory, prototype unit. Order: Leave the room." And indeed; as all semblance of emotion and recognition faded from the face of D-HEX-23675 to be left with the cold neutrality of an unfeeling machine, the mech turned and stepped out of the room. Cindermaw followed immediately.

"H-hey! Just you wait a click! You treacherous fragger, you can't do this to us!" Maelstrom erupted into rage, surging forward to swing at the Allicon.  
Cindermaw slammed the heavy vault door shut in his face, sending the warrior backwards. The violent ramming and crashing that erupted shortly after did not stop even when the two Quintesson creations were well on their way up to the observatory.

[Location: Trajin prison block observatory room.]

"They did not take it well" Fernicius commented idly, observing the camera feed inside the prison room.  
"You didn't honestly expect them to, did you now, Fernicius?" Emphisa answered him, positioned at the table in the middle of the observatory room.  
"No, Sir. I did not. But it is funny to see, Sir."  
"It is no laughing matter, Fernicius. I expect you to uphold a more professional attitude." Emphisa glanced up in warning, before returning to his log.  
For a moment, Fernicius hesitated. He wondered if Emphisa would appreciate it if he retorted with 'you did not hire me for my professional attitude'. But he already knew: Emphisa would /not/ appreciate. A sense of humor was not granted to Quintessa-bound Quintessons after all. "Yes, Sir, of course. You are absolutely correct."  
Emphisa nodded curtly, but did not look up from his annotations. His mind had been very occupied since returning from the Overseer's meeting, but Fernicius had yet to hear what had been ordered. All he saw was that Emphisa was reviewing the D-HEX blueprint and making notes.  
Fernicius did not ask.

Then, the door slid open and two mechs stepped inside: D-HEX-23675 and Cindermaw.  
Both Quintessons looked up and nodded.  
"Ah, welcome back, units." Emphisa gave a small smile.  
"Yes! Well done, Cindermaw, excellent reflexes. You handled that situation well." Fernicius complimented.  
"Your compliment honors me, Master Creator Fernicius Sir. Prototype unit has been successfully retrieved as ordered, Masters" Cindermaw saluted, stepping dutifully to the side.  
"Excellent." Emphisa smiled wider, "That pleases me greatly. Unit D-HEX-23675, Order: disengage."  
"Affirmative, Master Creator Emphisa Sir." Hextaida Mandar answered, voice monotone. The large machine's chest shifted, panels opening up. They revealed that the mech's innards were actually hollowed out; making room so that a smaller mech could fit inside. There, like a parasite nestled in the interior was the true form of unit D-HEX-23675 as the makers had constructed it. The cables that made it one with the bigger form disconnected and the micromaster sized transformer uncurled. It gripped the rim of the chassis, turned and climbed its way down to the floor. It waited patiently, barely reaching as high as the larger construct's knee. Its face remained emotionless and its azure optics were void of life. With its personality core shut down, it was nothing more than a machine.  
Fernicius nodded but gave no word of approval: why croon to a machine that could not recognize your words of kindness. He turned to Emphisa, "So I take it we are done, revered colleague?"  
"Yes, Fernicius, we are quite done for today. The test subjects have done their part but are now contaminated for further research. Having gained an insight in what is going on here they are no longer suitable as useable resources. I saw that you catalogued their technical specifications for the 'R&D' cover of this operation, but the council wouldn't want us to store the physical bodies. That would be a security breach."  
"Understood, Sir. I shall have the room purged then." Fernicius acknowledged. He reached out with a tentacle and pressed a button on the console below the screen monitoring the room. A text overlapped the view of the room; [Area purge initiated]. The screen showed that the circular indentations within the room opened, all at once. Branx, Tarix, Maelstrom and Tesla all withdrew from them as water began to flood the room through the new openings. A silvery form washed into the room from one of the torrents, followed by another one from another opening. A ball laced with spikes surfaced from the liquid as the first form flopped around to find balance. Another silvery waterdrop shape joined them, by now mostly obscured by the rising water. By now the first form turned upright, a row of sharp dorsal spikes set on the back glistening with wetness. The room flooded with the bright lime-green color as the creature activated its optics. The other mechanisms too lit their visual sensors, bathing the group in eerie green light...

"So tell me, Fernicius, are you satisfied with the result?" Emphisa inquired, eyes focusing on his subordinate. The other Quintesson switched his three faces around before smiling deviously, "Affirmative, Respected Colleague. I would say that the experiment went well. I am in fact particularly pleased with the way the prototype integrated itself into the group and made an attempt at drawing out more information. It was of course done with the skill of an infant; there is a lot of room for growth there."  
"It is not our intention of subclassing the prototype as an interrogator..." Emphisa suggested.  
"Of course not, Sir. I wouldn't think about it. But I do not feel offense at it performing a little bit of word-smithing, Sir."  
"Word-smithing?" Emphisa chuckled, "It was telling untruths, Fernicius, there is no need to be coy about that. Hextaida Mandar projected the backstory that you gave it and brought it to its environment with conviction. A /busker/, truly Fernicius, where did you appropriate a tale like that?"  
Fernicius couldn't help but chuckle as well, "Oh, I wrote the background myself and loaded it in, Sir. I dealt with some buskers once on Pz-Zazz during the basalt mine exploitation campaign; that is where I got the inspiration from. Hextaida was very confused at first when it interpreted my request: I had to make it exceptionally clear to the prototype that telling Untruths would be allowed if spoken to someone not from the faction and if of the utmost necessity."  
"It asked questions on your orders?" There was a hint of alarm in Emphisa's voice, but Fernicius waved it off.  
"Naturally, Sir: I was ordering it to perform actions that we forbid it to do only weeks ago. At first it thought I was telling it to break the law; at least Salaxorius did some good on deterring any law-breaking behavior. I had to explain to it that such behavior is allowed when interacting with rogue Cybertronians because their defects and misguided belief make them a liability and they would not hesitate to harm Quintesson subjects. A.k.a the prototype itself and its creators. But do not worry, sir, I also instructed that we highly prefer to see the unit refraining from telling untruths to external parties as much as possible because of the deceitful nature of such an action. We are of course above that." They are not… but the line between lawfully telling lies and telling lies in criminal intent is too thin to teach a machine.  
"Very well. Of course I should feel better that the unit takes care not to break the law even if that means that it is hesitating on taking on our commands. It shows of consideration of its own actions and what they mean in respect to our laws." Emphisa agrees, glancing over to the D-HEX unit for a moment. It showed of a success he had not anticipated, and he had to get used to that.  
"I would consider that a positive thing, revered Emphisa. If it were to disobey our orders it would shortcircuit itself so I see no harm in it validating its prospective actions with the law, wouldn't you agree, Sir?  
"Why yes, very true, I agree-"  
CR-CLANG!

The Quintessons were promptly abrupted in their evaluation as the door bursted out of its hinges and clanged to the floor. In the empty doorway stood, against all odds, a fuming Maelstrom. His red optics scanned the room with murderous intent, "/YOU/! Where is that treacherous slagheap that calls itself Mistwind?! I'm gonna rip the both of you to pieces!" The Decepticon snarled, glaring at Cindermaw. He stepped inside the room, subsequently spotting the Quintessons inside. Maelstrom had never seen Quintessons before and he stared, systems fighting between his bloodlust and the befuddlement, "What the FRAG are YOU?!"  
"How did you get out?!" Emphisa barked in return, tentacles twitching in fright at the sudden breakout of the Decepticon warrior. A Decepticon warrior, of all things!  
"Does not matter, Sir! The council must not detect a breakout; it will endanger the project! Cindermaw, kill the Decepticon! Kill him now!" Fernicius interjected, his reflexes from his time off Quintessa taking over. Cindermaw roared and made ready to lunge…  
"MAELSTROM! You rusting pile of Decepticon slag!" Everyone stopped and blinked as a raging Tesla appeared at the door, a large gash running from his shoulder and across his chest, "They were NEUTRALS! How dare you throw them at those- at those piranha-beasts-" The Autobot's voice trailed off as it too noticed the Quintessons, mouth moving silently in confusion. Maelstrom snarled, "I'm a DECEPTICON, big surprise! Now I don't know what these aliens are but I know they are the cause of all this so help me take them down and I'll let you live afterwards, Autobot!"  
Tesla scoffed, not taken in by the Decepticon's promise. Still he tightened his stance as well, optics shifting to take threat assessment of their opponents.  
Cindermaw hissed, gripping its polearm tighter whilst preparing to now fight two opponents. This didn't seem to bother him that much. He even grinned, as far as Allicons can grin, "Prisoners, you will face your destruction-"  
"Face /this/!" Maelstrom deadpanned, lunging forward to meet the Allicon in a brutal confrontation. He grabbed the spear when Cindermaw thrust it at him, guiding the weapon's sharp prongs safely into empty air. His other hand raked talons across the beak before backing up and gripping the throat tightly. Maelstrom tried to yank the spear away, but Cindermaw's grip was too powerful. Instead, the Allicon snarled, twisted the polearm ninety degrees and arced it back across the ground. One of the prongs cut across Maelstrom's ankle, throwing the Decepticon off balance. Following through as Maelstrom dropped ungracefully on his back Cindermaw completed the arc until the spear was pointing up to the ceiling. With a quick flick the Allicon inverted its position, prongs pointing down to the ground ready to skewer Maelstrom. The bodyguard tightened his grip...  
"No you don't!" With a loud cry, Tesla bodyslammed his weight against that of Cindermaw, throwing them both back across the desk in the center of the room. They slid off at the far end, a massive pile of tank-class warrior mechs exchanging powerful blows and hits.

Jumping back to his feet, Maelstrom watched the fight between Allicon and Autobot but did not join in. With murder in his optics, he searched the room. He locked optics with the aliens, Fernicius and Emphisa... before spotting Mistwind.  
Wait. What the?  
Mistwind was standing there, optics black, chestplates open. Maelstrom was not a medic but he had seen combat and dead mechs. He felt that no mech could function with such a lack of parts in their torso. He didn't even see a spark core. There was a little mech standing in front of Mistwind, looking just as lifeless as Mistwind himself had become before leaving their prison chamber. But it was online, unlike the busker.  
Suddenly, it clicked. That gaping hole in the mech's chest, and the little mech standing on the ground before it. Maelstrom blinked, before erupting in a furious howl. "I said I'd kill you!" he roared, leaping towards the little mech. He lifted a hand, sharp claws meant for battle poised to strike.  
A tentacle seized his lower arm, pulling him aside instantly.  
"You will not."

Emphisa had never considered himself brave. Nor a warrior. He was a Quintesson, and a scientist at that.  
They weren't warriors.  
The ruby optics of the war machine filled him with a kind of dread he had not felt before as they focused on him. To be in close proximity of an enraged warrior was, he had to admit, an experience he found intriguing. But one he could've done without.  
Still, he had lashed out, catching that arm as it struck out to /his/ prototype. Anyone would call him crazy attempting to protect a construct with his own life.  
But Emphisa had a good reason to take the risk. At least, he thought he did.  
"You're /touching/ me." The pure hatred in the voice of the robot chilled him. It /affected/ him, with its utter loathing for his species. Emphisa wondered for just a moment about that turning point where service drones had risen up in rebellion, and if a Quintesson Ancestor had ever stood as he did now. Then he struck out with another tentacle, electrically charging it just before it slapped the Decepticon hard in the face. Maelstrom winched under the assault, but Emphisa could see that this combat unit was sufficiently disciplined to remain standing. Lightning fast, he withdrew his tentacles to fall back to safe distance.  
"Oh, you /dare./" Maelstrom recovered, reached out fast and grabbed a tentacle. He shifted his shoulder joints in dangerous defiance when the appendage surged with electricity again and grinned. "You won't dare much longer."  
Maelstrom transformed to vehicle mode, quickly, fluidly, and with purpose. And then he transformed again, back into robot mode. Emphisa watched in absolute horror as the piece of living machinery folded and twisted around his appendage and cut it clean off during the transformation sequence! He /howled/ in pain, an action he couldn't remember having ever done in his life. But the pain! It burned and raged and was unlike anything he had ever felt! Emphisa stumbled back from the Decepticon, muttering incoherent ramblings and quivering from shock.  
"I'm /not/ done with you, alien. That was just a taste of what I'm about to do." Maelstrom announced, his optics a bright red glow of viciousness. He stalked forwards, sharp talons shining in the overhead room lights. He brought one hand up to strike-  
-Vvvvv-SHOOM!-  
Maelstrom's chest suddenly smoked from both sides. The arm he hadn't raised into the air clanged to the ground, burned through the upper arm. He grunted in dull surprise, optics lighting up with warning symbols. He turned, fighting to keep balance, to see the other Quintesson standing not too far from him. The squid was glaring at him with a mild but decisive look of fury. There was still the light glow of subspace surrounding the single barreled blaster that now engulfed the entirety of one of Fernicius's tentacles.  
"'/Warning, Fuel-pump destroyed. Processing catalyst destroyed. Various fuel-leaks in torso region. Activating Pain Inhibitors. Transformation Cog destroyed, Torso gyro stabilizers destroyed-/"  
"Pocket-sized particle cannon, custom design. The Quintesson Empire thanks you for your cooperation in testing initiative. Please exit the premises quietly and in orderly fashion." Fernicius drawled, locking aim once more while Maelstrom's systems still sounded warning reports. He fired without mercy.

As the Decepticon dropped to the ground, Fernicius turned to his boss, voice all matter of fact, "Emphisa, Sir, focus. Get up, go to medical, get your injury looked at."  
Emphisa looked up at the triple-headed Quintesson, the calm voice helping him surface from the depths of pain, "Gyah, F-Fernicius…. The Autobot!"  
Fernicius glanced over to the other side of the room, "It's ok, Sir. Cindermaw has that situation under complete control."  
From an outsider's perspective, the situation clearly favored Tesla who had managed to pin the Allicon to the ground and was landing blow after blow on Cindermaw's head and armor. It had been relatively easy to topple the mech and pin it and the reptilian mech hadn't really moved to change the odds. Tesla roared, denting another piece of already mutilated armor that had only been fixed to 'combat ready' status. The Allicon had crossed his arms in front of him, blocking most of the blows to sensitive places. The yellow optics were watching, waiting.  
"Primus damn you, why don't you surrender?!" Tesla scowled, "Surrender, show me the exit, we'll all just forget about this!"  
Suddenly, as if in reply, Cindermaw snapped to action. He opened his beak and bit into Tesla's incoming left fist. At the same time he grabbed the front of Tesla's face, covering the optics and pulling the Autobot forwards. His remaining free hand had opened, a sharp combat knife appearing in a surge of hexagon lights. His fingers curled around the item and jabbed it deep underneath a layer of armor. By allowing Tesla to straddle him and then pull the Autobot forward, Cindermaw got access to vulnerable circuitry that would otherwise be shielded. With Tesla in the belief that he had the upper hand, the Allicon had given himself the element of surprise in what had seemed a clear situation. He twisted the blade until a surge of oil soaked his chest and Tesla began trashing wildly to get away. He let go enough to let the shieldsmech dive to the ground besides him, transformed to beastmode, and bit down.

"Chief Creator Emphisa Sir, you must go to the medical department, Sir." Fernicius repeated, helping Emphisa gain balanced levitation.. He steeled himself not to flinch at the injury that his boss had sustained, and forced the urge to scorn Emphisa for such a thoughtless act to the back of his mind.  
He understood the reason. But it had still been stupid.  
Yet… didn't he, for just a moment, feel the urge to do the same?  
"Yes, I will go." Emphisa replied,  
From the back of the room, Cindermaw stepped up. His optics narrowed seeing Emphisa's injury and he growled lowly. Then, a flash of movement caught his vision. "Sirs" he nodded at the screen. It showed the hallway where the sinking room was located. A familiar shape inched away from the entrance to the holding pen. It was a lean mechanoid figure and despite the grime and water dripping from the form it held an air of superiority.  
Emphisa hissed in severe irritation, "/Branx/. He's still alive. By the council, why don't these mechs just /die/ already."  
"Do not worry, Sir. We will handle it. Go and have that injury looked at." Fernicius soothed.  
Emphisa glared back at him, "Do not fail, Fernicius. If the council-"  
"We won't fail, Sir" A sadistic smile formed on Fernicius's face, "Hextaida Mandar, Order: Activate personality core. Intel: The mech visible on screen is Branx Amolgoth the Third, he is a fugitive and a danger to the population. Order: Intercept and Execute. Branx may not reach the upper levels of Khalanxis Tower."  
The small prototype blinked for a moment. Then life flashed back into its vision, a transformation no-one present neither had time nor thought to admire. The bright azure optics focused on the screen to take in the identity of the target Fernicius had given it. Hextaida memorized the location of Branx and turned to Fernicius. He straightened and saluted, "Order acknowledged, Master Creator Fernicius Sir. Execution commencing, Sir."  
With that, D-HEX-23675 turned and left the room.  
Fernicius took command over the console, logging in to a different set of command tools. The view split into showing more camera feeds.

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End of Chapter: Disengage]  
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Please read and review if you like the story.

Personally, in this chapter I liked Maelstrom the best. I tried writing him with a flippant and predatory attitude, with a mischievous/arrogant undertone. It's a character I will miss since there are no other characters who have such an outspoken bad guy attitude. All those of the Quintesson faction just aren't… Decepticons. And I like Decepticons.  
Also, yes, transformation as a /weapon/. I have over a hundred comics in my collection but can remember only one scene where the act of transformation was used as a weapon an sich. Overall it's pretty amazing that in the media transformers switch modes and no passengers get hurt. This would imply that when they do get hurt, the transformer did it deliberately, which tells of viciousness. And Maelstrom had a strong desire to be vicious, so there you have it.

Small spoiler:  
There won't be any character deaths in the two stories after this. I merged the original 4th journal with this one (#3). There are at the moment about four more journals written down (scene summaries and scene excerpts) and one of them was already written to completion in September 2012 (journal #5) but never uploaded considering that the rest wasn't done yet. It would've been a really confusing story if I uploaded it then.

Again, positive criticism very much appreciated!


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